


Inheritance

by CurrieBelle



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5405846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurrieBelle/pseuds/CurrieBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Circa Episode 35 - Vex asking Percy the question we were all thinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer here that this is nothing more than little warmup drabble I did a while back. It seemed fitting after Episode 34, so I cleaned it up for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!

“He won’t do it. He’s not going to say anything.”

“I thought he looked quite determined – did you see how high he jumped when Grog went for the belt?”

“He’s my brother, I know him – look, look look, they’re not even talking!”

Vex sticks her hand straight across the table, as if presenting Percy with incontrovertible proof. Across the bustling courtyard, in the direction of her outstretched fingertips, Vax and Keyleth stand in quiet consultation at the base of the Sun Tree. The babble of the revelry around them would make it impossible for Vex and Percy to eavesdrop, but there are an awful lot of long looks going on, and not many moving lips. He doubts they are missing anything life-changing.

A long, angry slurping noise sounds from somewhere near Percy's elbow, and he glances down. Vex sits bent over her tankard of ale, sucking the foam from the rim and glaring at her brother over top.  Hunched and glowering as she is, with her furred cape on her shoulders, she looks quite reminiscent of Trinket. A particularly angry Trinket. Considering the mood Vex gets in when Keyleth and Vax start making eyes at each other, Percy decides not to mention the similarity.

The bear in question has ingratiated himself with the young of the town, and Vex temporarily donated him to the evening's festivities. He lumbers by every so often, huffing along at a happy trot, carrying a gaggle of screaming children, their sticky fingers wound in his ropey fur. The other members of Vox Machina are dispersed throughout the courtyard. Scanlan appears to be herding musicians, with Pike's diplomatic help, and Grog, still sulking over his foiled prank, has made a mission of hauling every single one of the tavernmaster's casks of wine up to the street. Cassandra flits about shaking hands, re-introducing herself to her hometown, and she passes by him frequently with an ever-growing smile. Percy and Vex have found a relatively secluded perch behind a table, one well-stocked with some much-needed food. And, of course, with ale. A second tankard, recently emptied, sits between them. Vex had drained it before sitting down.

Percy tips his chair back on two legs, and watches her drinking and watching. She watches Keyleth and Vax, almost without blinking, for a full thirty seconds. She watches with the kind of unflagging dedication to a mundane task that only the truly inebriated possess. “Are you _already_ drunk?” he asks, crossing his arms.

With a definitive slurp, the last of the foam disappears, and Vex drums her spider-thin fingers on the tankard. “Percival,” she replies, with an air of motherly patience, “We have had a very awful day clearing the vampires and death magic from your castle, so I would appreciate a little understanding.”

“I know. I lost my gun,” he reminds her. “It was enchanted.”

Vex grunts in sympathy - or perhaps derision, he can't tell - and takes a long, hard swig of her ale, tipping her head almost straight back. Scanlan leads a colourful gaggle of bards past them, and Percy catches a drifting phrase of his piercing voice – _stop me if you know this one!_ – before the general chatter swallows it again. Next to all the clamor and joy, Vax and Keyleth appear to be part of an entirely different scene, painted with different colours, in soft lighting and muted shadows. He's happy for them, in that slightly awkward way that the mutual friend of a fledgling couple always is. In his own silent way, he hopes that Vax can't feel his sister's piercing gaze at what seems to be a critical moment. Just to make sure, Percy gives Vex a sideways look - and to his surprise, finds her staring directly at him instead.

When she speaks, her voice is tentative and fragile. “You’re not leaving, are you, Percy?”

He blinks. Her eyes are black and intense, with a touch of sadness about them. It is a look he has come to recognize, although it is a rarity. She had given him the same look when he'd killed Professor Anders - when she'd reached into the smoke, and found his hand, and asked him to remove his mask. It is an expression that makes all her warm-hearted concern evident, but gives him no clue as to the reason for it. The question makes absolutely no sense to him. He glances around at their surroundings – a battered table dragged out from some tavern, a half-eaten slice of meat pie he’s been picking at, and Vex planted firmly on a three-legged stool, blocking his most obvious escape route. If Vex so desperately wants company to spy on her brother, well, he owes her far too much to refuse her. “No?” he says.

Vex huffs a sigh, and takes another drink. She sets the tankard down with a clang, and bursts into a strange, rambling monologue at a tempo he can barely catch. “I just mean that Pike’s gone, you know? I mean she’s here but she’s not really – she blinked away a lot in the castle, you were there and you remember. And then Tiberius left as well, I assume because of Draconia…things,” she twirls her hand in the air, and fails to snatch a more appropriate explanation. “And now you’re a – you’re a Lord, I suppose? Is that right? And you’ve got a sister and a castle, and all these – happy peasants, looking at you like-”

Percy’s chair falls back onto four legs with a clatter. _Oh. That kind of leaving._ She’s looking away from him, down at her drink. She sniffs, and continues, in a quiet, broken voice, “and my stupid brother over there, all starry-eyed – I wonder sometimes if he even sees what we’re losing.”

If there is any member of Vox Machina that scares Percy, it is Vex. Keyleth is harmless to him, sweet as honey. Grog is brutal sometimes, but entirely predictable, a simple equation of how many women, enemies, and bottles of alcohol are in his vicinity and which of the three is closest. Scanlan’s a fool – a resourceful fool, he thinks, still mourning the memory of a beautiful, unique, _hand-crafted pepperbox of **which there was only one in the world**_ sinking into acid – and Vax is a simple enough man to decipher: family first, do-gooder streak second, dagger, dagger, jenga, and away we go.

But Vex is a special kind of clever: the sharp-eyed, charming, almost manipulative kind of clever that lets her wink and haggle with such finesse. Percy cannot read her, cannot predict her, and, most importantly, he cannot comfort her. He does not know how to stop her rages, or make her happy, or quell her tears. He couldn't begin to guess why she's kissed him three times now, each in entirely different contexts (three little memories that linger like stars in his mind, disorienting and distant, and at times he wonders if he'd imagined them all). So Vex is scary, but Vex in tears is terrifying, because that constitutes a problem for which he cannot tinker a quick fix.

She sniffs again, and laughs at herself, covering her eyes with her hand. Percy can see her lips trembling, and a single tear escaping from under her slender fingers. Oh, hell, he's _never_ been good at this sort of thing, and she makes it a thousand times more complicated when he has to consider his chances of getting mauled by a bear later. With no other recourse, he pulls Vex's drink away across the wood, wincing at the scrape of the metal. She doesn't notice. Off to a fair start, then.

“I suppose it’s not a fair thing to ask,” she admits. "Stupid of me."

“Not at all,” he says. In truth, he hasn’t even considered the question of whether he'll leave Vox Machina or not. He doesn’t know _how_ to be a Lord, even if that is the course laid out for him. Perhaps Lords can leave their posts, on occasion – or perhaps he can rule from a distance? By letter, or by magic? Install a teleportation circle in Whitestone, spend his days with Vox Machina and just pop back in to do his taxes?

The longer he considers, the more ridiculous it sounds. At last, the cold, horrible question, the question in its absolute and uncaring form, crystallizes in his mind. It asks:  _Which do you choose – the home you fought so hard for, or the friends who won it back at your side?_

And he doesn’t know. Not at this juncture, with all the noise and colour occupying his senses, and with Vex hiccupping gently beside him, all of it compounding his guilt. He folds his hands together, and laces and unlaces his fingers, as he always does when deep in thought. After a few seconds, he rests them on the table, and decides sincerity is all he has to offer. “I don’t know yet.”

Vex nods, brushing her tears away with the tips of her fingers. She gives him a watery, hopeful smile, and his heart drops through his knees. He feels it so vividly and suddenly that he wonders if it's been sucked out by that black orb still spinning beneath their feet. Those on the receiving end of a patented Vex wink had seen _nothing,_ he thinks - that little shake at the corner of her mouth is infinitely more lethal. She tries to put her hand over his, and misses ever so slightly, glancing off the tips of his fingers. With a self-deprecating laugh, she says, “Well, either way. Don’t forget who your friends are, Percy.”

He smiles, and says, "Of course not."

It would be so strange to lose this dynamic now. He's become accustomed to her - to her spontaneous smiles and bursts of encouragement, blooming from nowhere, like bright flowers on a barren roadside. He has a whole litany of her comments in his mind, and he turns them over, one by one. _We are so involved in this. We don’t want to lose you, Percy. Don't worry, Percy, we've got you. Percival, darling, take off the mask. _She’d even managed to remember his full name at one point, hadn’t she?

“And I suppose,” she continues, her grin still weak but growing, “you’ll inherit an ungodly amount of gold?”

“I expect so,” he realizes. As he is listening to her, and walking back through their past at the same time, a bolt of inspiration strikes him, catalyzed by a memory: The pair of them and her beloved bear, plummeting through the sky, the swoop in his stomach when she caught him, her wild smile after they collided with the ground. Regardless of his choice, he has a perfect parting gift. For the hell of it, he mimics that Vex-wink, and says, “I bet I'd have enough to fund a magic carpet.”

She looks up at him like she's been electrocuted, her eyes wide. Without warning, she launches herself out of her chair, flinging her arms around his shoulders and hugging him so hard that he nearly hits the ground in a tangle of furniture and limbs. With a yelp, he latches his hand onto the edge of the table, holding them both precariously upright. The empty tankard of ale is knocked aside and spins like a coin. Her fur-lined cloak tickles his cheek, and she is very close and warm. Right by his ear, she mutters, “you’re a genius, Lord de Rolo.”

He heaves a breathless, bewildered laugh. She leans on him, languid and cozy, obviously not intending to move any time soon. He wonders if she’s still drunk. “Can you do the whole thing?” he asks. “The whole name?”

“Lord Percival Frederickstein von Musel Klossowki de Rolo the Third,” she says, without slurring or stumbling. By the smile against his cheek, she's proud of herself. And then, squeezing him once more, short and tight, she adds, “of Vox Machina.”

He squeezes her back, smiling. His heart feels strangely light. The decision of whether to stay or go still looms in his mind – but for a moment, he can fool himself into thinking that Vex has made his choice for him.


End file.
